


shattered

by takethebreadsticksandRUN



Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Crying, Drabble, I make the rules, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, TMAHCWeek2020, elias Knew something and gave him a panic attack, elias bouchard is only in a tiny bit of this and i still manage to hate him more for every word, he cares okay? that's all i need, jon is comforting bc this is my fic, martin dropped a mug, yes i'm still doing this i'm slow okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26225992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethebreadsticksandRUN/pseuds/takethebreadsticksandRUN
Summary: The words echoed around Martin’s brain, bouncing off his skull and ricocheting into places he knew they would never lead. Something about the way Elias had simply spoken to him had been enough to undo everything he had worked so carefully to build up over the past few months at the Institute. Not that he had much stability to begin with, but now even the pretense of it was gone.Prompt- confusion/cradled/accident
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist (pre-slash)
Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894012
Comments: 10
Kudos: 93





	shattered

**Author's Note:**

> no thoughts head empty but i slammed this out and have not edited so rip me. hope y'all enjoy! i realize now this is probably super disjointed and not my normal style, it's too short for what i generally try to do (at least 1,500 words) but oh well. all you need to know is elias Knew too much about martin and freaked him out about it. this is maybe a few months into working at the institute? other than that i don't know what is going on.  
> FEEDBACK IS VERY MUCH APPRECIATED  
> xxx

The words echoed around Martin’s brain, bouncing off his skull and ricocheting into places he knew they would never lead. Something about the way Elias had simply _spoken_ to him had been enough to undo everything he had worked so carefully to build up over the past few months at the Institute. Not that he had much stability to begin with, but now even the pretense of it was gone.

Trembling slightly, Martin pulled his sleeves down over his wrists, fidgeting with them as he sank against the wall. Elias’ face swam in front of his eyes, taunting and smug. All he had wanted was to make a good impression, to seem helpful and competent.

_“Good morning, Mr. Bouchard.”_

_“Ah, good morning, Martin.”_

_“How are you?”_

_“I am doing reasonably well. And you?”_

_“I- uh, I’m fine.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

He should have been comforted. Should have taken heart in the knowledge that somebody cared about his well-being. But this was _not_ innocent. The question was malicious, not a gentle compulsion to ask for help, but a persistent needling at the already-uncomfortable knowledge that no, Martin was not okay, thank you very much.

_“Wh-what? Yes, I’m fine.”_

_“After all that, I’m surprised you’re still standing. But I suppose this is your little rebellion, in a way. Slightly pathetic, but do what you need to in order to cope.”_

It was at that moment that Martin had fled, turning and trying not to run out of the building, two cups of tea still clutched in his hands. What was Elias playing at? Was he some sort of creepy stalker? Or just a really, really good guesser?

Martin rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to warm and steady himself. His breath was coming fast, in and out faster than his lungs could keep up. The cold winter air nipped mournfully at his exposed skin.

Behind him he heard the door open and shut, the thud echoing louder than was normal. His heart dropped, falling falling _falling_ past his stomach.

“Martin?”

He jumped, knocking a mug over. It shattered on the concrete, liquid spilling out in a flood. It fizzed as it spread, pieces of the porcelain mug lying, glittering, in the puddle. He swore and without thinking reached down to pick it up, not knowing what he was doing, closing his fist around a particularly jagged shard.

It cut into the flesh of his palm, the sharp pain almost welcoming in the fog of confusion surrounding his brain.

“Martin?” It was Jon. Why was he here? Why now, of all times? If he was coming to lecture him about _research quality_ or something like that Martin might just break down right there.

That is, assuming that he didn’t crack like the mug in the next few minutes. Hastily, he hid his now-bleeding hand in the sleeve of his jumper. “Hi,” he muttered without turning around, praying that for once he would just be _left alone._

The gods granted him no such mercy. Footsteps clicked behind him and in a moment Jon was at his side. “Good heavens, man, are you alright?” He looked down at Martin, sitting cross-legged on the stairs, one hand tucked away, a shattered mug leaking tea at his feet.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” he said, trying not to sound upset. He couldn’t keep his voice from shaking. _Traitorous_.

“No, I don’t think that you are.” Jon squinted at him for a moment, decidedly sitting down next to him. “What ever is the matter?”

_Where had his breath gone? Stolen, swallowed by other hungry mouths no doubt._ “I came out for some air and dropped a mug.” Martin decided to go with this half-truth, safer than a lie but more comfortable than honesty.

“Did you cut your hand?” Suddenly Jon’s hands were on his arm, probing gently at his sleeve, drawing out his still-curled fist. Martin nodded, clenching his teeth to keep from saying anything he would regret. Jon took this as a sign of pain and continued even more carefully, prying the shard of ceramic now stained scarlet out of his grip. “Oh, that doesn’t look good. Did it shatter in your hand?”

The concern in his voice was _overpowering_. Jon looked up at him when he made a choked sound and he felt so seen in that moment, Martin would gladly have been invisible but at the same time wouldn’t have traded his place for the world.

“Let me help,” he said softly. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

Martin burst into tears.

Well, burst was the wrong word, altogether too violent. He simply overflowed, tears leaking out of his eyes with alarming rapidity. Jon noticed this and looked a little at a loss.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend- was it something I said? What’s wrong?” he floundered, trying to soothe Martin’s quiet shaking.

He still couldn’t breathe, his heart swelling with unknown feelings and pushing his lungs against his ribcage, squeezing them smaller and smaller. He took a great, shuddering gasp, trying to calm down. “Sorry, sorry,” he managed, “Rough day.”

“Yes, I can see that.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but much to Martin’s surprise, no pity. Only worry and a gentleness that was entirely foreign to him. Jon scooted closer to him, wrapping his wounded hand in his scarf. “Hey, it’s okay.” With a tentative motion, he wrapped an arm around his side and pulled Martin into a hug. “It’s okay. Just breathe, alright?”

Martin closed his eyes and focused on the one steady thing in the moment- Jon’s voice. The air froze inside his lungs but oh, how warm his body was, how easily he fit into Jon's side. 


End file.
